


Consolation Prize

by zelda_zee



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-29
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oscar Night, 2008 and two of the Best Actor nominees console each other for their losses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If there’s one thing Johnny likes it’s being proved wrong. Not that he likes to lose, oh no, quite the opposite. He wouldn’t have made it as far as he has if he didn’t have an ingrained and rather fierce desire to win. It’s more that he likes to have his expectations turned upside down and shaken up and presented back to him all rearranged. It doesn’t happen very often these days and he certainly doesn’t expect it to happen on Oscar night.

After all this time, he feels like he has a handle on how things work in this town. He’s figured out how to do what he loves and still stay sane, he knows the pitfalls and what to expect from people (not much) and from the Industry (ditto), and he knows that one thing you won’t encounter on Oscar night in Hollywood is a single honest word or sincere smile, so he’s adjusted his expectations to their lowest setting and reminded himself that tomorrow it will all be over and he’ll be gone again. It isn’t difficult, he’s done it before, umpteen times. It’s like slipping into an old, worn-in jacket, one that is now perhaps a size too small, so that when it’s buttoned up it makes it a little hard to breathe. But still, he can manage it. People don’t really expect him to say much anyway, and they certainly don’t expect him to be effusive. He can get away with broody and introspective, even on Oscar night, when it seems like the whole starry universe is fizzing and bubbling and effervescing fit to burst.

He adjusts his glasses and shakes his bangs forward to cover his eyes a bit more and fixes in place the enigmatic half-smile that he’d perfected longer ago than he can remember and grits his teeth through four hours of mostly nonsense interspersed with a few slightly less than wholly forgettable moments. He keeps the seat fillers busy as he sneaks out for smokes and drinks, and once when he just shuts himself into a stall in the men’s room for ten minutes so he can be alone and ends up listening to somebody who sounds suspiciously like Colin Farrell on the receiving end of a very slurpy blowjob.

He isn’t planning on going to any of the after parties, because “been there, done that” is kind of the credo he lives by these days, and also that one about only fools not learning from their mistakes, he lives by that one too, if only he could remember how it goes. Maybe he had a few too many drinks during his time-outs from the show because everything seems pleasantly fuzzy and possibly fizzy as well and even slightly effervescent, and he feels much more relaxed than he had on the red carpet or fidgeting in his seat or hiding out in the green room or even in that cozy bathroom with the excellent acoustics.

It’s just a whim that prompts him to stop by the Governor’s Ball. He was invited, of course. He was invited to everything in spite of the fact that he never goes to anything. You’re supposed to RSVP, but as if it would matter. He knows no one cares if he just shows up, or rather, they’d care, they’d be so thrilled they’d probably wet themselves.

He just isn’t ready to call it a night, not yet. He’s wound up and nervy. Not disappointed, really, because he’d known he wouldn’t win. Just… he needs it to sink in, because no matter how sure you are that you won’t win, there’s still a little voice inside you that persists in saying, _well, maybe there’ll be an upset, maybe you will_.

So he goes to the Ball and it’s kind of awful even though everyone is perfectly nice and exceedingly friendly. He feels too disconnected, between his level of inebriation and how out of practice he is at this kind of thing and he just thanks god that he grew up enough to realize that it doesn’t have to be like this all the time. He feels strangely like a scientist, looking at organisms moving around on a slide under his microscope or maybe an anthropologist, like Margaret Mead in Samoa, or was she that woman who lived with the chimpanzees, damn, he always gets those two confused.

“Who was that woman who studied chimpanzees? You know, the one who lived in the jungle with ‘em?” he asks the man standing beside him at the bar. The guy turns to him and Johnny smiles because, hell. Viggo Mortensen. You’ve gotta smile at that.

“Jane Goodall,” Viggo speaks really quietly. He smiles at Johnny and Johnny kind of marvels at it. He’s got a really nice smile, kind and honest. It has to be fake. His teeth aren’t though, that much is obvious. Johnny can’t remember the last time he saw less than perfect teeth in LA. “Of course, now I have to ask why you want to know.”

“MmmmIdunno.” Johnny sways drunkenly, leaning in close, a movement that brings back a keen sense memory of Jack. “Jus’ feeling a bit scientific, I guess. Or anthropologic, to be more exact.”

Viggo’s drink arrives, something brown with a cherry. Johnny orders something clear with an olive.

“Have we met?” Viggo asks.

“You don’t remember?” Johnny says. He’s a bit affronted. He thinks if he wasn’t himself, he’d probably remember meeting him if he had. Which he hasn’t. Viggo hasn’t, that is.

“I meet a lot of people,” Viggo says, staring at his drink. He looks shy and Johnny tries to figure out if it’s an act. It must be an act, he reminds himself. On Oscar night in Hollywood, everything’s an act. They’re all _Actors_ , after all. “I _feel_ like I’ve met you,” Viggo continues, looking at him now, and it’s a bit startling how direct his gaze is. Johnny’s not sure if he’s entirely comfortable with that. “But I think that’s just because of your movies. I don’t think I really have.”

“Well, I’d remember having met you,” Johnny says pointedly. “And I’m sure I haven’t.”

When Viggo smiles it makes about a hundred little lines appear at the corners of his eyes. Johnny thinks it should make him look old, but it only makes him look like a man who spends a lot of time smiling, and that’s kind of a beautiful thing. “Sorry,” Viggo says. “I hope you don’t think me rude. I’m a great admirer of your work. I’m very happy to meet you.” Viggo puts out his hand and looks Johnny in the eye with that disconcertingly steady gaze, and even though Johnny’s a bit peeved that Viggo fucking Mortensen doesn’t even remember whether or not he’s ever met Johnny fucking Depp (when Johnny very clearly remembers that no, as a matter of fact he has not), he shakes and just hopes that Viggo doesn’t notice how sweaty his palm is. It surprises him a bit, because he hasn’t felt nervous like this in a while, in fact he’d thought he was past being wowed by celebrity, but he can’t deny that he’s feeling just a tiny bit wowed at the moment. Though he still thinks it’s kind of snooty that Viggo _claims_ not to remember if they’d met before. It’s not that he’s conceited (really it’s not), it’s just a fact that people tend to remember meeting him, even famous people.

But Johnny smiles and doesn’t let on and they exchange some bland pleasantries, compliments and general inquiries after each other’s well-being and plans for the immediate future, observations of what’s going on around them, that sort of thing. Their eyes light on Daniel Day-Lewis, who’s just moved into their line of sight, encircled by a crowd of avid well-wishers and Johnny mumbles something about "there but for the grace of god" and Viggo snorts and agrees that yes indeed, it was a very near miss for the both of them.

After a while Johnny steps out of the way of the mob trying to score a drink at the overcrowded bar, and also out of the way of the various acquaintances and commiserators who want to re-hash the evening’s events and tell him that they were rooting for him all along and when he looks around again Viggo is gone and he’s surprised at the way his spirits sink, especially as their introduction hadn’t exactly got them off to the best start and their conversation hadn’t been particularly scintillating. He tucks himself away into a nice, quiet corner between a potted palm and an ice sculpture and nurses his drink, and it’s just a coincidence that the view of Day-Lewis over there, enthusiastically waving his Oscar around while he talks to George Clooney, is mostly obscured by palm fronds. Clooney’s looking cool and relaxed and ridiculously perfect, the way he always does, and Johnny can't help feeling just a little jealous of how easy he makes it all seem. He'd read some article once that stated with great certainty that every man wants to be George Clooney. He guesses it must be true.

He’s starting to feel like maybe he's had enough of Oscar night when he turns around to find Viggo right beside him, apparently having followed him to his hiding place.

“You could take him,” Viggo says, nodding toward Day-Lewis, who’s telling Clooney some kind of tale that involves a lot of gesticulation. Johnny watches as Clooney’s eyes dart to the statuette in alarm as Day-Lewis, totally oblivious, nearly beams Tilda Swinton in the head with it.

"What?" Johnny asks, momentarily distracted.

"I bet you could take him," Viggo says. "If you really wanted that thing."

Johnny smiles at the image that comes to mind of himself pouncing on Daniel Day-Lewis, wrestling the Oscar from his spindly grip and running for the exit, cackling like a madman. There's a certain absurd appeal to it, he must admit. “You think? He’s bigger ‘n me, but then I don’t fight fair.” He eyes Viggo up and down. “You could definitely take him, if _you_ wanted it badly enough.”

Viggo makes a noncommittal sound and sips his drink. Johnny thinks of the bathhouse scene in _Eastern Promises_. After seeing that, he’d pretty much believe Viggo could take anyone, even though it was just a scene in a movie.

“So. You’re feeling anthropologic?” Viggo asks, returning to Johnny’s opening question.

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind me. I’m just drunk and I don’t make any sense when I’m sober, so there’s really no hope for me now.”

“Well, tonight has been a night in which I’ve heard very little sense being spoken, and that was perhaps the most senseless thing of all.” Viggo looks at him expectantly. “And yet also the most intriguing.”

“I’m ‘fraid my explanation’ll disappoint. I was just feeling a bit removed, you know. A bit… like an objective observer, like an – an – anthropologist or something. Studying the strange ways of the indigenous tribes.” He shrugs. “Not too profound.”

“It goes with the territory,” says Viggo. “The more time you spend away from it. It all starts to seem so foreign.”

“And yet it’s still so familiar,” Johnny mumbles. He quirks the corner of his mouth. It’s a smile, but not really a humorous one. “Kind of comforting, in a way, how it never changes.”

They stand there for a moment, sipping their drinks. It’s companionable, Johnny thinks. He appreciates Viggo’s presence, since it seems to be keeping everyone else away. He supposes the two of them together are a formidable enough pair to discourage a fair number of people, even the brazen types that tend to people this kind of event. And, he admits, he appreciates Viggo’s presence because there’s something inherently pleasing about the man. Johnny’s not accustomed to meeting people in Hollywood who are comfortable with silence or who will look at you straight on with such unfeigned interest.

Johnny’s watching Viggo out of the corner of his eye as he leans back against what he thinks is a column and he nearly falls on his ass when it turns out to be something cold and slippery and wet. Viggo grabs his elbow, hauling him back upright and chuckling as Johnny flails for a moment.

“It’s okay,” says Viggo. “It’s just Oscar.”

Johnny turns and frowns at the sculpture suspiciously. It’s a life-size Oscar in ice and it’s on a pedestal, its non-existent sexual organs right at eye level.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Johnny whispers conspiratorially. “He’s been avoiding me.”

“You need to make nice. Win him over,” says Viggo. He hasn’t let go of Johnny’s arm and he’s very close, smiling down at him, those hundred little lines around his eyes in evidence, doing funny things to Johnny’s insides. “I dare you to lick him.”

“What?” Johnny laughs incredulously. It’s dangerously close to a giggle. “You’re kidding! Someone could see.”

Viggo shrugs. “They could. So?”

“What if someone photographs it?”

“That’s why it’s called a dare.” Viggo smiles toothily. He lets go of Johnny’s arm and steps away and Johnny tells himself that he doesn’t mind that in the least.

“Well, it’s a stupid dare.”

“I never said it wasn’t. Dares are always stupid. And you’ll notice I’m not offering to do it myself.”

“Oh, for god’s –” He’s not sure why he does it, but after a quick glance around to be sure they’re unobserved and once he’s sure he has Viggo’s full attention, he leans forward, sticks his tongue out and licks, slow and dirty, down the center of Oscar’s ass, where his crack would be if he had one. And then, just for good measure, and because Viggo is watching him with such undisguised fascination, he smiles and licks back up again with a series of nasty little flicks.

There. That’ll show him.

“Think that’ll win ‘im over?” Johnny rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s cold.

Viggo exhales audibly. “I think that would win anyone over.”

“You owe me one now,” Johnny says.

“Do I?” Viggo sounds unconvinced.

“You do.” Johnny’s smile feels a little sharp. He’s very alert, very aware. He glances at Viggo and the feeling intensifies. Adrenaline. “I need a smoke,” he says. “Care to join me?”

They slip out a side door. There’s no one out here in the alley. The ‘official’ smoking area is on the other side of the building, in a fenced-off carpeted area with a tent and a bar. Johnny thinks it’s kind of funny that by unspoken consensus the two of them are instead standing in a grungy alley. But it’s quiet and it's cool outside and the air smells clean after the rain they’d had earlier, though of course once they light up, they can’t really tell anymore.

“I hear you do your own stunts,” Johnny says, taking a drag. Damn, he really needs this cigarette, needs to calm down a bit.

Viggo looks surprised by the question. “Mostly. In _Lord of the Rings_ I did.”

“Mmm.” He exhales a long, thin stream of smoke. “And in _Eastern Promises_?”

“Oh,” sighs Viggo. “The fight scene. Yeah, that was me. All me.” He’s staring up at the brown-gray sky, visible between the buildings. Johnny thinks he sounds bored. “People always ask me that.”

“That’s because the fight scene was fucking amazing. It was brilliant, you know that, right?”

“That may be, but people ask me about it because they want to know if that was really me. Naked.” He looks at Johnny, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “And yes, it was.”

Johnny nods. He already knew that. “That’s not what I was gonna ask about.”

“No?” Viggo looks slightly more interested.

“No. I was wondering about that scene where you put the cigarette out on your tongue. Did you use a stunt double for _that_?” He grins. “Or a stunt cigarette?”

Viggo laughs. “No, that was all me too.”

“So? Does it hurt?”

“Why?”

“Because.” Johnny leans back against the brick wall and takes another drag. “Because you owe me a dare and I was gonna dare you to do it. Here and now, for me.”

Viggo tilts his head and gives Johnny a long, appraising look and then something shifts, something subtle in his stance and the way he holds himself and the angle of his jaw. His eyes go hard and flinty and he takes a drag, exhales and touches the burning ember of the cigarette to his tongue. Johnny’s heart stutters because, Jesus, it’s just like in the movie and for a second Viggo is just _gone_ and it’s Nikolai standing there in front of him and he’s so fucking _present_ , it’s scary. He’s heard Viggo’s Method, but wow. That’s impressive.

Viggo flicks his butt away and twitches a bit, like he’s shaking Nikolai off.

“Let me see,” says Johnny. He knows he’s pushing it, but hell if he cares. This is too fucking fun.

Viggo frowns at him in confusion, so Johnny sticks his own tongue out to demonstrate. “Let. Me. See.”

Viggo sticks his tongue out. There’s a dark spot in the middle of it but it doesn’t look burned or anything. Johnny touches it gently with the tip of his forefinger then rubs a bit and Viggo’s breath hitches, his eyes snapping to Johnny’s, wide and disbelieving. Johnny lifts his finger away and doesn’t even think about it, just brings it to his mouth and sucks Viggo’s taste off of it.

“Fuck.” It’s spoken low, beneath Viggo’s breath, but loud enough for Johnny to hear it. He’s suddenly reckless, the alcohol, the stress of the night, the adrenaline that Viggo’s mere presence seems to release into his bloodstream combining into a heady cocktail, something delicious and potent and utterly irresistible, and he realizes that Viggo is something he could never have anticipated, something exhilaratingly unpredictable. Something he, to his not inconsiderable surprise, wants very badly.

He leans back against the wall, legs spread, arms hanging loose, flicks the butt away and tilts his head back, looking at Viggo from beneath his lashes. It’s a subtly whorish pose and one he hasn’t adopted in a good, long time, one he’s really too old for, to tell the truth, and one that he suspects is more effective when he isn’t wearing glasses and a tux, but none of that stops him. He holds Viggo’s eyes and watches the emotions flicker over his face – surprise, amusement, definite interest, and then, yes! Lust.

Johnny waits, but when Viggo finally takes a step forward he can’t help the smile that wants to stretch broadly across his face. He bites his lip to keep it from growing and watches Viggo watch his mouth. He approaches slowly, as if he’s giving Johnny every chance to walk away and have this be nothing at all, just a bit of memorable entertainment at the end of a long evening. But Johnny stays put, doesn’t budge an inch, and when Viggo’s right in front of him, when he leans forward and rests a hand against the wall beside Johnny’s head and looks at him very intently, it makes Johnny’s breath quicken and his heart pound and tingles race over his skin and he has to quell the urge to arch forward and try to rub himself against Viggo like a cat.

He could let Viggo take his time, let him read what’s on Johnny’s face like he’s doing now until he’s absolutely certain that he’s got it right, but that’s not really Johnny’s style, not when there’s something he’s decided he wants, not when he can see quite plainly that Viggo wants it too. So he grabs Viggo by the collar of his jacket and pulls him forward and pushes off the wall and kisses him.

It’s not a very good kiss, not to start with. It’s too sudden and startling and Viggo’s taken aback and tries to jerk away and their teeth clack and it hurts when Johnny’s lip gets pinched between them. He laughs into Viggo’s mouth and tilts his chin and gentles the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of Viggo’s neck, and then it’s a whole different thing. Viggo makes a soft, surprised sound in his throat and presses Johnny back against the wall, and oh god yes, just like _that_ , now that’s more like it. Johnny’s mouth falls open and his tongue snakes out and it meets Viggo’s halfway and proceeds to attempt to wrap itself all the way around it while simultaneously plumbing the depths of Viggo’s throat.

Viggo’s mouth is… it’s fascinating, dark and smoky and Johnny’s sure it must hold mysteries that he’s meant to discover, mysteries that belie the straightforward way he kisses, so careful and yet passionate. Viggo's putting everything into it, every bit of focus that he’s got, like he’s forgotten about the Oscars and the party and the fact that they’re standing in an alley and that someone could come along any second and discover them – it’s all making Johnny’s knees weak and his head spin, making him melt back against the wall with Viggo’s body curving warm against him and his hand protectively behind Johnny’s head, between him and the damp, dirty bricks and the other on Johnny’s hip, then sliding under his jacket and up his side and around his back, and everywhere he touches he makes Johnny’s skin sing with sensation.

“I don’t like this,” Johnny pants against Viggo’s lips, his hands sliding along Viggo’s jaw and tilting his head, holding him there, his tongue nudging until Viggo opens his mouth again with a little _unh_.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Viggo mumbles, his words slipping on warm, smoke-scented breath into Johnny’s mouth. His hand slides down Johnny’s back until he’s cupping his ass, squeezing, and Johnny shivers because there’s something so casually self-assured and possessive about it that it makes him break out in a sweat, makes him a little fuzzy-headed as his blood rushes south with dizzying speed. There’s just enough room between them for him to look right into Viggo’s eyes and they’re dark and unknowable and…just… fucking… _mesmerizing_.

“The beard,” Johnny clarifies, fingers dancing over it. It’s soft but prickly and Johnny suddenly thinks of how it would feel brushing against his thighs, inside, up high, and _oh oh_ he’s in trouble, they’re in trouble and he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a single flying _fuck_. He squeezes his legs together and rubs them against each other because they suddenly tickle and itch. “I don’t like it. It hides… that scar. That scar of yours, the one. The one.” He stares at Viggo, at his mouth. Crooked. Framed in gray-brown hair. Can’t even see the scar. It shouldn’t be so hot. “Shouldn’t hide it,” he mutters, and then, “Oh, fuck.”

He stops talking and instead licks over Viggo’s upper lip, finds the indentation where the scar is. It makes his belly tighten to feel it, just a tiny bit of hardened skin under his tongue, and he has to squirm closer and lick over it again and again and if he makes a sound that’s ridiculously like a whimper when he’s doing it, well, Viggo’s mouth is open and he’s panting and he probably can’t hear over that anyway. Johnny’s scrabbling at Viggo’s clothes, at his fucking tux, of all nights to find himself in this situation, it’d have to be the one when they’re both wearing the most damned inconvenient garments ever.

Viggo grabs his hands, stopping him. “Not here,” he says. He takes a step back and rubs a hand over his face. “This – god this is _crazy_. We’re old enough to know better, you and me.”

“Fuck that,” Johnny says with a whole lot of conviction. He’ll be damned if he’s going to watch the most interesting thing that’s happened to him all evening, hell, all _year_ , get cold feet and walk away. “Just fuck it. You want this and so do I.” He thinks fast, really fast. He’s got Viggo by the wrist, finger looped in that braided hippie band that Viggo wears, and he’s not letting go. “Come with me.” He doesn’t return to the party, instead he heads toward the end of the alley, where it opens into the street, pulling out his cell and hitting speed dial.

*

It’s not a perfect solution, but it’ll do, and there’s something about it that Johnny likes. It’s naughty and clandestine and it feels dangerous even though it’s really pretty safe. They’re in his limo and he’s given his driver instructions to take himself elsewhere until he calls for him. The doors are locked, the windows are tinted and really there’s no way anyone will find them. Still, just the idea of it is enough to send a pleasurable frisson of excitement down Johnny’s spine, like he needs any more excitement at the moment, since he’s got Viggo under his hands and his mouth and he’s hard and panting and Jesus, yeah, Viggo’s right, this _is_ crazy – crazy-good, crazy-fucking-amazing.

He scrambles on top of Viggo, bearing him down, kissing him, mouths and tongues clashing, open and wet and hot. He grinds down (Christ, he’s hard), groans when his cock rubs along Viggo’s through their trousers, so good, so good, and he does it again and again, moaning raggedly. His hands are roaming over Viggo’s body, untucking his shirt and _ah god yes_ bare skin underneath, warm and smooth over hard muscle and bone, hairs tickling his palms. Then he’s pushing at Viggo’s coat and pulling at Viggo’s tie, yet he doesn’t actually seem to be succeeding at getting any clothes off of him. Viggo laughs softly into his mouth, and Johnny pulls back stares down at him. Viggo looks amused and Johnny flushes hotly because he’s behaving like a horny teenager which is kind of what he’s feeling like at the moment, and, yes, he is old enough to know better and old enough to be embarrassed by it, but before he’s had time to think better of how he’s acting, Viggo’s shifting around, rolling on top, the hard weight of his body pressing down on him and Johnny could no more keep himself from writhing and thrusting up than he could pull the moon down from the sky. Viggo’s rocking his hips hard and slow, his cock sliding along Johnny’s and he’s got a funny expression on his face – it looks like affection maybe, though Johnny thinks Viggo really doesn’t know him well enough to feel affection for him.

Viggo reaches down and pulls off Johnny’s glasses, tosses them onto the other seat and the edges of Johnny’s vision soften, the lights outside refracting into starbursts. Viggo pushes the hair out of his face, smoothes it straight back from his forehead and Johnny stares up at him, feeling suddenly exposed.

“You don’t like to show this pretty face,” Viggo murmurs in that raspy voice, raspier and quieter than before and it doesn’t escape Johnny’s notice that it’s not a question. “Not unless you’ve got a mask to hold up in front of it. Is this face too pretty for a man like you?” He smiles fondly, dammit, and Johnny doesn’t know why Viggo thinks he can get away with looking at him like _that_.

“Mask?” he asks, feeling like he should challenge the rest of it, because he never has liked being called ‘pretty’, but to tell the truth he’s a little distracted because Viggo’s still grinding down on him, slow and easy now, and it’s making ripples of pleasure wash through his body, over and over. He’s breathless and muzzy-headed and not thinking clearly enough to challenge anybody about anything at the moment.

“Roles,” Viggo breathes. “Characters. They’re your mask. You don’t mind it then, do you?”

Johnny smiles because Viggo is odd. He’s heard that from people, and now he knows it’s true. He likes it. “I don’t mind it then,” he agrees.

“Do you mind it now?” Viggo asks, his eyes moving over Johnny’s face, looking ever so carefully, taking in every little detail and Johnny wonders if he’s going to end up as some painting of Viggo’s or maybe a poem – then wonders if Viggo is going to end up as one of his songs.

“I don’t mind it now,” Johnny whispers and it’s true. Usually Johnny doesn’t like that kind of scrutiny. It’s why he’s got the hair and the glasses and the beard, it’s why he wears hats and why he mumbles and avoids looking at people straight on and why he lives where and how he does and maybe even why he smokes too much. But right now, he doesn’t mind it. Something about the way Viggo’s looking at him makes it okay.

Viggo’s fingertips trail over Johnny’s brow, across his cheek, along his jaw. A forefinger brushes slowly back and forth over his bottom lip then pushes inside his mouth. Johnny closes his lips around it and sucks and watches Viggo blink slowly, his eyes darkening.

Viggo kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, pulls his finger out, replaces it with his tongue. Johnny opens his mouth and lets him in, as far in as he wants. He tastes of smoke and bourbon, he smells of sweat and soap and whatever he’s got slicked in his hair and some spicy scent that makes Johnny think of incense. Sandalwood, patchouli, something like that. Figures Viggo would smell like a hippie.

His hands clutch at Viggo’s back, trying to bring him closer, but Viggo’s sitting up, shrugging out of that annoying jacket of his and pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt and Johnny does likewise and from the looks of it they’re not going back to the party because Johnny doesn’t think they’ll be able to put it all back together again well enough to not give themselves away. What the hell. He was pretty much done with the evening anyway.

Viggo doesn’t take off his shirt, it’s just hanging open. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with the cufflinks. Johnny doesn’t care, because it looks sexy as hell. Viggo clearly wants him naked though, or at least shirtless, because he’s tugging it off his arms and leaning in, kissing Johnny again, his hand sliding hot and firm up his thigh and Johnny’s fighting to get his pants unfastened because, fuck, he wants Viggo’s hand on his skin, but just then Viggo palms his cock through his trousers and Johnny freezes.

“Uh,” he says, as Viggo squeezes and strokes. His eyes close. “Oh. Oh _god_.”

Viggo’s mouth is on his neck, wet and open. Johnny tilts his head and Viggo bites at the muscle, not hard. Johnny knows he won’t leave a mark.

“What do you want?” Viggo mumbles against his skin, and Johnny’s gratified to hear a tremor in his voice. Viggo shifts closer, until Johnny’s backed up against the door, his legs splayed wide, Viggo between them, his hand working Johnny’s dick like, like, Christ, like this is something he’s wanted to do, like it’s something he loves to do. _Jesus_. Johnny’s head falls back against the window, his hips rise up into Viggo’s hand. “Tell me what you want.” Johnny opens his eyes, looks at him from beneath heavy lids.

What does he want? He doesn’t know. Anything. All of it.

Viggo’s got Johnny’s trousers open and his hand is pushing in and wrapping around him firmly, no hesitation, and it’s incredible, rough and callused and strong and undeniably masculine. Johnny bucks, gasping.

“Want you,” he manages, his voice deep, scratchy. That’s all he’s got, all he can come up with.

Viggo smiles at him crookedly. “Okay,” he sighs. “Okay then.” He sits back and takes Johnny by the hips and pulls him forward so he’s laying flat on the seat and then he leans down and places a soft kiss right on Johnny’s navel and then one right above it, working his way up and it all slows down again. Johnny’s dizzy with it, with the back and forth, hot and hard, then slow and sweet and now it’s slow and sweet again, with gentle kisses and light, lapping licks, and the whisper-tickle of Viggo’s beard against his stomach. His hands comb through Viggo’s hair. It’s hanging forward now, falling into his eyes when he glances up to watch Johnny’s face as he slides a pointed tongue over his nipple. Johnny’s not sure what Viggo sees there beside wide eyes and parted lips but it makes Viggo chuckle as he fastens his lips around the nipple and sucks on it as his hand reaches between Johnny’s spread legs, into his pants and cups his balls, stroking and caressing and Johnny arches up with a moan and _oh god_ he thinks, he wants this man, wants him to fuck him, wants it more than he wants anything else right now, more than he wanted that little golden statue that seems to be so elusive to them both.

If there’s one thing Johnny likes, it’s being proved wrong. He’d been so sure this would be a night of boredom and disappointment, something to grit his teeth and bear with as good grace as he could, the price he’ll gladly pay for what he has, even if it is not something that he can bring himself to enjoy. But somehow the night has turned into just the opposite, something so very _interesting_ , so wildly unexpected, so unusual and unwise and wicked and wonderful. Johnny’s delighted by this turn of events, by being presented with something he never could have predicted, not in a million years. It’s not often that he’s taken by surprise these days, which makes him all the more grateful to anyone who can manage it, and Viggo has managed it so completely that Johnny’s not even sure which way’s up anymore.

“I want –” Viggo looks up at him, blue eyes questioning. “I think I want you –” Viggo’s watching him and it suddenly makes him feel shy to say it, but he’s started, so he needs to finish. “I’d like to fuck. D’you think we could do that?”

Viggo lowers his head again, licks over the other nipple. “I think we could,” he murmurs. “If you’ve got..?”

“I don’t.”

Viggo worries his nipple between his teeth and Johnny makes a pained noise. It’s fucking good, but _ow_ , it hurts. “I wasn’t planning –”

“Me either,” Johnny gasps.

“I might have a condom in my wallet,” Viggo says between licks. “No telling how long it’s been there though.”

“Okay.” At this point Johnny isn’t going to worry about condoms past their prime. “Do you have..?”

“No –”

“Spit’s okay.”

“No. No way.” Viggo sounds adamant and Johnny raises himself up to his elbows and opens his mouth to interrupt, but Viggo continues. “Which way do you want..?” He makes a funny, abbreviated gesture. “Because either’s fine with me. Really.”

Johnny nods. “Okay. Yeah. But I do. Want.” He mimics the gesture Viggo just made, because oh, yeah. He really does want. “If you’re okay with it.”

Viggo grins. “I’m _very_ okay with it, but only if we can find –”

“Oh, like we’re gonna find some just laying around here somewhere,” Johnny says impatiently. “I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter.”

“You do this a lot?” Viggo asks.

“I – no. No, but –”

“But nothing. I won’t hurt you.”

Johnny’s head falls back and he stares at the ceiling. “It won’t hurt – or okay, it will, but I don’t care. It’ll be worth it.” He raises his head and stares down at Viggo. “I’m not a fucking virgin, you know. I can take it.”

“When was the last time you –”

“Oh, for chrissakes.” Johnny frowns at him and shifts his hips. This conversation is having a deflating effect and he’s not enjoying it.

“I mean it. I’m not going to hurt you,” Viggo insists.

“Jesus, how big _are_ you?” Viggo laughs at that, like Johnny’s made some kind of joke which, Johnny must admit, piques his curiosity. “What if I like it rough?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t like it rough,” Viggo scoffs, dropping kisses down the center of Johnny’s chest and lower, along the median of his torso.

“I might,” asserts Johnny. “I do. Sometimes. Now would be…” He feels his body heat again as Viggo’s tongue dips into his navel and probes gently. “Now would be… would be… oh…oh…ohhh-kay,” he finishes faintly as Viggo lifts his head until his lips are hovering just over the head of Johnny’s cock. His breath ghosts over him in warm puffs and Johnny bites his lip, trying to repress the urge to shove his hips up at Viggo’s face.

Viggo glances up at him and licks over the tip and Johnny’s whole body tenses as a little voice in his head says matter-of-factly, _Viggo Mortensen is going to suck my dick_ , while at the same moment he’s canting his hips up and trembling and panting and gasping “Oh Jesus,” as Viggo’s mouth seals down warm and wet around him. Johnny thinks that he was right, that Viggo’s mouth does hold mysteries, fascinating mysteries, mysteries that he fully intends to discover and explore and catalogue, if only, if only, if only that deliberate swirl of his tongue wasn’t so very enervating, and if the rhythmic pull and suck didn’t send unbearable molten sweetness surging into every cell, and if only the way his - _ah god_ \- the way is beard tickled didn’t chase every coherent thought from his mind, why then he could – he could – concentrate on what he was – he was – Oh hell, he’s totally lost his train of thought.

His hands are in Viggo’s hair, fingers twisted into the strands, pulling, pushing, and Viggo’s letting him, he’s just going with it, moaning a little when Johnny thrusts deep and holds him down and _fuck_ that’s hot. It doesn’t really surprise Johnny that Viggo’s good at this. Johnny thinks that Viggo must be good at everything he’s passionate about, and it’s clear that he’s passionate about sucking cock. Viggo swallows around him and Johnny’s hips stutter, his hands tighten in Viggo’s hair, he curses and groans, and oh, he wants to shove his dick down Viggo’s throat, fuck his sweet, gorgeous, sinful mouth, and he knows Viggo would let him, Viggo would like it. But if he does, that’s it, he’ll be done for the night, or at least for the better part of the night. He’s not young anymore, dammit, though right now he’d give anything for the stamina he had back in his twenties.

“Wait,” he gasps, and then “Oh fuck, fucking, shit,” as Viggo takes him in all the way, until his beard’s brushing Johnny’s balls, setting off electric shocks as each little hair connects with his skin, and Johnny’s orgasm is suddenly writhing and coiling in his belly.

Viggo pulls off of him then and Johnny stares at him in a daze, his hips still hitching up helplessly. “Fucking show-off,” he pants.

Viggo places a kiss at the tip of his cock and licks up the droplet that emerges in response. “Of course,” he says agreeably. His voice is scratchy and he clears his throat. “I could continue, if you want...?”

“No.” Johnny squirms around, trying to push his pants lower, but it’s impossible with Viggo weighing him down. “I want – I want –”

“I know what you want.” Viggo says it quietly, but with such utter certainty that it makes Johnny shiver. Christ, he believes it, believes Viggo knows exactly what he wants and what’s more, is fully capable of giving it to him. Viggo’s leaning up on his hands, kind of looming over him. His hair’s a mess and he’s flushed and his eyes are the most piercing blue. It makes Johnny salivate just to look at him. “But I don’t have to stop,” Viggo’s saying. “I’d like it, you know – if you came in my mouth.”

Johnny bites his lip, because, _fuck_ , he’d like it too, he’d love it in fact, but he’s kind of got the idea of being fucked stuck in his head. He kind of really wants it a lot. There’s something about Viggo that makes Johnny feel like he just has to know what it’d be like. He has a feeling Viggo fucks like the devil and all the saints combined and he just really wants to know for sure and he doesn’t give a damn whether or not they have any lube or whether spit will be enough or how long it’s been for him or whether it’ll hurt. Viggo’s concern is sweet, but really, _really_ not necessary.

Viggo sits up and moves away. Moves to the opposite seat in fact, and starts rifling about in the bar. There are little drawers and cabinets and he’s pulling them open and looking inside and god knows what he’s doing, maybe he’s decided to mix a drink or something. Johnny’s sitting up, about to say _fine, yes, whatever, just please come back here and put that fucking amazing mouth of yours back on my cock_ , when Viggo opens a drawer and says, “Eureka,” and he turns to Johnny, wearing a shit-eating grin, so Johnny crawls over beside him and there in the drawer are about twenty little foil packets in various colors and shapes.

“It’s a fucking gold mine,” Johnny snickers. “A veritable treasure trove.”

“Is this what they mean when they say the bar is fully stocked?” Viggo asks. They both peer curiously into the drawer as Viggo pushes the contents around with his finger.

“This one,” says Viggo, plucking out a packet of lube and then a second one, same brand. He takes a condom as well, one that is presumably not as decrepit as the one rumored to be in his wallet.

“I guess this means I won’t have to use Plan B,” Viggo says.

“And what was Plan B?” Johnny asks, toeing off his shoes. Viggo grabs his feet and pulls off his socks, first one, then the other. He sticks his tongue out at Johnny and waggles it around suggestively.

“Really?” Johnny squeaks. He tries to ignore the way his cock twitches and the sort of tingly, pulsating feeling in his ass. “Well, don’t let all that,” he waves a hand in the direction of the drawer, “dissuade you. You were so worried about hurting me. Can’t be too careful, is what I always say.”

Viggo’s wearing an evil grin that Johnny suspects matches his own and his eyes are twinkling dangerously as he yanks Johnny’s pants and underwear off in one go. Johnny raises up to help him and he’s laughing behind his hand because this is _fun_. Viggo surges up and pulls his hand away and kisses him and suddenly Johnny’s not laughing, he’s groaning and licking frantically at Viggo’s musky-tasting tongue and wrapping arms and legs and everything else he can manage around Viggo, because damn, the man feels good.

He pushes and writhes and they kind of roll and shift, not breaking the kiss, hands everywhere, kneading and clutching. Viggo’s still got his clothes on, sort of, though they’re hanging off of him in ways that make him look thoroughly debauched. Johnny slithers around on top of him, thrusts down and their cocks slide against each other, skin on skin, so fucking good. Viggo’s hands cup his ass, fingers dipping into his cleft and he pushes against them with a moan. He sits back a bit, wriggling into Viggo’s grip and wraps a hand around them both and looks down because, hell. Now he knows why Viggo’s been so concerned about not hurting him. He almost makes a joke about it, but Viggo rocks up and his cock slides against Johnny’s and he squeezes Johnny’s ass and Johnny forgets all about what he was going to say.

Viggo’s body has this hard-edged, animal quality to it. Johnny knows Viggo can be graceful - gorgeous even – he’s seen it on screen, but here and now Viggo looks powerful, even if his muscles aren’t huge and there’s gray hair mixed in with the brown. Johnny might not like being called pretty, but he knows he’s closer to that than he’ll ever be to Viggo’s harsh kind of beauty.

He bends down, needing to put his mouth on Viggo’s skin, to learn what he tastes like, the feel of him beneath his lips. A sharp nip of teeth makes Viggo’s stomach muscles quiver, the flat of his tongue circling wetly around a peaked nipple makes him pant loudly and grip the back of Johnny’s neck, holding him there. Johnny pushes his shirt lower on Viggo’s arms. There’s a tattoo, some kind of foreign script, he can’t make out the words. He licks over it, can’t resist. He likes tattoos.

Viggo’s hands slide into his hair, cradling his skull, bring him close for a kiss that’s so deep and hot and dirty that it makes Johnny’s toes curl in tight. Viggo sits up, pushing Johnny back. “Plan B, yeah?” he mumbles and Johnny can’t think of a thing to say except, “Oh fuck.”

It’s not very dignified, the way he scrambles eagerly into a kneeling position, legs spread wide, leaning forward against the back of the seat. He’s got a hand on his dick, jacking himself slow and loose, because he needs it, needs that touch or he feels like he’s just going to come apart. It’s startling and disconcerting to realize how much he wants this and he wants to laugh in delight and exultation, but Viggo’s mouthing over his spine and speaking against his skin and Johnny listens but it doesn’t even sound like English. Damn him, Viggo’s speaking in Spanish or Danish or fucking Elvish for god’s sake, Johnny can’t tell, it’s all whispered and garbled, so he just listens to the tone of it, quiet, breathless, reverent, because he’s pretty sure whatever Viggo’s saying, it’s really good and it’s about him.

He falls silent then, and Johnny feels fingers ghost over his ass. He looks over his shoulder and Viggo kisses the angle of his jaw, then the corner of his eye. “Beautiful,” he whispers in Johnny’s ear. Just one word, but it’s enough.

He kneels down behind Johnny and his hands spread him wide and his tongue, warm and wet, slides down between, down to his balls, then back to circle his hole. Johnny groans and lets his head fall forward, lets his hand drop away, because now, with Viggo's tongue on him, _in_ him, it’s too much. He loves this, Christ, he loves it, the wriggling, muscular pressure inside, the quick, teasing flickers of sensation around the rim, the way it makes him want to open up and let Viggo all the way in, the way he can’t help moaning when Viggo fucks into him with his tongue, the way he can’t stop his hips from moving in time with it. He feels something else push inside alongside Viggo’s tongue, something firmer, longer, and for a minute he’s too out of it to realize it’s his finger, until it rubs unexpectedly over his prostate and he cries out, sharp and hoarse. There’s an insistent sensation in his balls, creeping through his body, pushing into his cock, throbbing and building, and he’s going to come, he’s going to fucking come if Viggo doesn’t stop right fucking now. He squeezes around the base of his dick and Viggo pulls back at the same moment Johnny gasps, “Stop,” and then Viggo’s right up against him, his cock sliding in the damp valley between his cheeks, his chest curving against Johnny’s back.

“I think I need to fuck you now,” he says breathlessly, and two slick fingers are rubbing over Johnny’s hole and pushing inside. Johnny groans “ _Ohfuckyeah_ ,” shoving himself back to take them in deeper. It burns and stretches but he doesn’t care, he’s in a hurry, he doesn’t want to wait another second and apparently Viggo’s finally feeling a bit of urgency as well, because Johnny’s not quite ready for the third finger and the way Viggo’s spreading them and twisting his hand around, but oh god, he’s good at hitting that – that spot, right there – Jesus, yeah he’s really good at that.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Johnny mutters. He’s talking low and fast and breathy, just saying whatever words he finds on his tongue. Viggo’s kneeling up behind him now, his body hot and hard against his back, his cock hot and hard against his ass and he’s nudging Johnny’s legs out wider and pulling his hips out toward him and there’s the sound of foil tearing and, “Fuck, fuck, just, Jesus that’s good, just do it, Viggo, c’mon, need it now, c’mon man, do it, oh fucking hell I really need it, oh fuck, oh oh _ohhh_ \--”

He groans as Viggo thrusts in, groans louder when he doesn’t pause to let him adjust but keeps going, relentlessly spreading and splitting him until he’s gasping desperately and shuddering and his whole body is filled with the visceral, sparkling pleasure-pain of it. Viggo makes a noise like a sob and his teeth dig into Johnny’s shoulder as he grinds in slow and deep, as deep as he can go and it feels like he’s _too_ deep, like he’s deeper than anyone’s been before. Johnny’s hands are clutching the upholstery, white-knuckled, desperately trying to hold on and one of Viggo’s covers his, palm and fingers wrapping around. The other one finds his cock and his thumb rubs over the head, smears the liquid down his shaft and strokes him fast. Johnny’s hips jitter forward involuntarily and he gasps because it pulls him nearly off Viggo’s cock and he wasn’t ready and it fucking burns. There’s no time to recover though because Viggo’s swearing and thrusting in hard and ready or not, it’s on. Mostly Johnny just feels overwhelmed, buffeted by too much sensation, more than he can remember feeling in – in – well, more than he can remember feeling ever, though to be honest, at the moment his memory’s a little fuzzy. It’s all too sharp and bright and it takes a minute before his body can decide whether the balance is going to tip toward pain or pleasure, and then, predictably it decides in favor of the latter, and it’s a wild, headlong tumble into ecstasy.

He twists around, trying to see Viggo. He wants to see, wants to watch him fuck, wants to see him come undone, inside him, _oh Christ_ , he has to see that. Viggo’s fucking him with long, deep strokes, his face pressed to Johnny’s neck. Johnny pulls his hand out from under Viggo’s and gives it a squeeze.

“I want to watch you,” he says. “God, I want to watch you,” and it takes only that before Viggo’s withdrawing, too fast, leaving Johnny with an aching, empty feeling inside. But then he’s being lowered onto his back and Viggo’s hand is under his thigh, pushing it up and back and he’s sinking in again and Johnny’s moaning and arching up and wrapping his other leg around him and pulling him in and demanding more and harder and faster. Viggo’s smiling down at him, actually _smiling_ , right in the middle of fucking him, and it’d be sweet except he really looks kind of intense and feral, but Johnny can’t help smiling back and gasping and moaning and laughing, all at the same time.

Viggo leans forward, bending over him, pushing his legs back farther so he can kiss him and it’s sloppy and wet and biting and it’s good, so good. Johnny licks over the scar and rocks up and Viggo moans and jerks and fucks into him hard and electricity streaks up Johnny’s spine and suddenly he’s there, right there, teetering on the brink. He’s staring at Viggo who’s staring back at him, eyes wide and dark, and a hot flush of pleasure washes over Johnny, fills him up until it feels like he’ll burst. His body tenses and trembles and he’s making some kind of pleading, needy sound and Viggo’s hand is on his cock, jerking tight and rough, and he’s fucking him with quick, shallow thrusts and Johnny bucks and lets loose with a half-strangled wail and arches, open-mouthed, as lights dance across his vision. He balances for a breathless eternity before it hits him, wave after wave of ferocious pleasure bearing him up into a blinding, timeless moment. Viggo groans as Johnny comes all over himself in sharp, aching pulses, warm streaks landing on his skin and then Viggo’s slamming into him and it’s wild and savage and Johnny can only moan, and writhe and lay there, weakened by pleasure and awash in sensation, and let Viggo _take_ until he has what he needs and he clutches Johnny to him and buries his face in his neck with a mewling sob and shakes, hips pumping erratically into him again and again.

For a moment after it’s over Viggo’s incredibly heavy on top of him, and then he takes the weight onto his arms and Johnny can breathe again, or at least attempt to. He thinks it might actually take him a while to re-learn how to breathe, and even longer to remember how to move. His limbs feel heavy and warm and he’s totally relaxed and it feels like heaven. He needs a cigarette but not yet – maybe in just a minute.

Viggo’s leaning up on his elbows, slowly disengaging from Johnny’s body. He’s careful but it makes Johnny wince anyway, and he has to admit now that he’s glad they didn’t end up going with spit for lube.

“Okay?” Viggo asks. He pushes a lock of sweat-damp hair out of Johnny’s eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Johnny sighs. “You didn’t damage me in the least.”

Viggo shifts to the side and Johnny rolls to face him. It’s not terribly comfortable, but it’s not bad. The seats are wide and plush and he’s got endorphins playing a game of pinball inside him and Viggo’s looking at him like – like he’s a little stunned, like maybe he’s not quite sure what the hell just happened.

“You’re still dressed,” Johnny says with a giggle.

Viggo glances down at himself. “I think we ruined my tux.” It does look worse for the wear. There’s a seam splitting at the shoulder of his shirt and some suspicious-looking stains on the trousers.

He looks at Johnny and their eyes catch and hold and Viggo gets the strangest expression on his face.

“Jesus,” he says. “I can’t believe we did this.” He covers his mouth with his hand and laughs incredulously. “You and me. You. And me. It’s crazy.” He laughs again. “Can you imagine if – if –”

“Would you care?” Johnny asks, genuinely curious. “If anyone found out?”

“I guess…” Viggo says hesitantly. “Not particularly. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. But no, I guess, other than that, it wouldn’t really matter to me.”

Johnny nods. That’s about what he’d figured. He leans up and scans the limo, searching for his jacket. “Smoke?” Viggo asks and Johnny hums in reply. Viggo grabs Johnny’s coat from the floor and hands it to him and Johnny fishes out his pack and his lighter.

He lays on his back and shares a cigarette with Viggo, though to be honest Viggo only wants a couple of drags, which is good because Johnny usually doesn’t like to share his cigs. He’s feeling generous at the moment however. Sex will do that to him and considering that the sex in question was rather fantastic, he’d gladly let Viggo have a whole cigarette of his very own and did, in fact, offer him one, only Viggo didn’t want it.

What now? Johnny wonders drowsily. He’s sprawled over Viggo, his head on Viggo’s shoulder, one knee hitched up as Viggo’s fingers trace patterns on Johnny’s thigh. Various options present themselves, some more attractive than others. He prefers the ones that involve very little actual movement, coupled with the possibility of more Viggo at some point in the near future, perhaps taking place somewhere a bit more roomy and convenient, such as, say, a bed. Yes, a bed would be nice, a bed with Viggo in it. Definitely his preferred option.

“Tell me.” He tilts his head back so he can see Viggo’s face. Viggo’s eyes are closed and he looks very peaceful. “Did you _really_ not remember whether or not we’d met, or were you just being coy?”

Viggo doesn’t open his eyes, but he can’t suppress a grin. “Being _what_?”

“Coy,” Johnny repeats. “Were you being coy, pretending you didn't remember?”

“Do I look like a man who could pull off being _coy_?”

“I think you could pull off pretty much anything you decided you wanted to,” Johnny states, which he guesses is kind of a roundabout way of saying that he thinks Viggo’s a hell of an actor.

Viggo blinks at him, silent for a moment, and then he sighs and says, “I was _not_ being coy. I really didn’t remember. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at that kind of thing.”

“At meeting people?”

“Meeting people, remembering what I’m supposed to remember, the social thing. All that.” Viggo leans up on an elbow and looks down at him. His shirt’s hanging open and Johnny just wants to bury his face in Viggo’s chest and smell him. And then maybe lick him, and do other things to him. All kinds of other things.

“Now that I _have_ met you though,” Viggo’s saying. “I’m quite sure that I won’t forget.”

Johnny laughs. “You’d better not.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Viggo lays back and Johnny stretches and then relaxes onto Viggo again. He sighs contentedly, his fingers playing with the hair on Viggo’s chest and then fiddling with a nipple. He’s glad Viggo doesn’t seem to mind. Johnny has a hard time holding still.

“So you’re okay with the way the night turned out?” Viggo asks. He’s wearing a teasing smile that Johnny thinks looks particularly good on him.

“Sure, I’m okay with it.” He finds that when Viggo smiles at him it's nearly impossible not to want to smile back. His cheeks are starting to feel sore, which makes him suspect that maybe he hasn't been smiling enough lately. Certainly not enough to acquire those little lines at the corners of his eyes like Viggo has. Johnny thinks he'd really like to have a few of those on his own face.

“Not disappointed that the third time wasn’t the charm?” Viggo's asking.

Johnny shakes his head. He’d actually managed to forget about that. “What about you? Sad that you didn’t win?”

“I think I’ll survive.”

Viggo sits up and tugs Johnny down until he’s flat on his back again and splays a hand over Johnny’s stomach. He looks at his hand and then at Johnny, starting at his toes and moving slowly upward, and it feels like something warm and sparking touches Johnny’s skin everywhere Viggo’s gaze alights, until Viggo’s looking at his face, looking right into his eyes.

Johnny grins at him, though he thinks really it’s more of a smirk, or actually probably a leer. “At least the consolation prize doesn’t suck.” He runs a hand down Viggo’s arm to the hand that’s resting on his belly.

Viggo leans down and his breath is warm against Johnny’s face. “No, it doesn’t suck.” He drops a soft kiss on Johnny’s mouth and he can feel the smile on Viggo’s lips. “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’d have to say that the consolation prize is quite _spectacular_ ”

 


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted in response to a comment porn request on LJ on March 14, 2008.

Johnny wakes to momentary confusion – gray skies outside the window instead of the usual bright blue of Provence, the deep quiet of a well-insulated hotel room instead of birdsong and insects buzzing and a warm body weighing him down onto the bed, a mouth, soft and wet against his chest, kissing and licking over his nipple and the tickle of beard – oh yes, Viggo, and it all comes back in a flash and he’s, oh god, arching up, instantly hard, his breath stuttering out on a low moan.

He opens his eyes and squints down at him and Viggo gives him a – mmm, a very naughty grin that Johnny thinks bodes well for his immediate future. He looks wide awake and his hair’s wet so he must’ve already had a shower and suddenly Johnny’s aware of how he stinks of cigarettes and sweat and booze and, most of all, sex, a pungent, musky miasma that makes him afraid to think what it’ll be like if they push back the covers.

“Good morning, Johnny Depp,” Viggo says, deep and raspy, and goes back to tracing a circle around and around Johnny’s nipple with his tongue, which makes it very hard to respond in any half-sensible way.

“Morning,” Johnny manages, squirming as Viggo licks a trail to his armpit and pins his arm, lapping with the flat of his tongue. “You - ahhh - that tickles just a – oh! Just a bit. Oh hell.” He’s wriggling against Viggo, who shifts over so he’s fully on top of him, bringing their bodies into alignment so that their naked cocks rub against each other and Johnny’s hips ride up quite of their own accord because oh fuck that's good. “I think...” He glances over at Viggo, who meets his eyes but doesn’t stop licking over the hair in Johnny’s armpit like he's a cat giving itself a bath. “I must stink. You really don’t have to – I could take a shower.”

“No shower,” Viggo says decisively, dropping a very salty kiss on Johnny’s mouth. “I like it." That grin again. "A lot,” and then he kisses his way down Johnny’s chest, winking at him before he disappears beneath the covers. God, Viggo’s such a freak, Johnny thinks, because he knows that he must be a veritable inferno of stink down there, but oh hell, if that’s what turns Viggo’s crank, then great. He’s all for turning Viggo’s crank, any way he can, and there’s a hot tongue on his belly and hands gripping, spreading his legs so wide that he feels the strain in his muscles, and the soft tickle of beard on the inside of his thighs, up high, right where it – right where it – oh god, right there. He thrusts and whines when only the sheet rubs against his cock and his hands slip beneath the covers and find Viggo’s head and his fingers slide through the damp strands and dig in insistently and then Viggo’s breath is hot on the tip of his dick and he can’t help himself, he gasps “Please,” and he hears Viggo’s satisfied chuckle and then Viggo’s mouth is around him, god yes, Viggo’s perfect, beautiful, sweet, hot, wet, perfect mouth and Johnny can’t hear anything more over the sound of his own moans.


End file.
